Better Days
by Sky Rat
Summary: Sequel To 'Yohji's Bad Day.' Yohji misjudged Ken and now has to deal with the emotional consequences. Drunkeness, angst, yohji rambling to himself. Happy (if a little evil) ending. Yohji x Ken. Shonen ai. Complete!
1. A single day changes everything

This is the sequel to my previous story "Yohji's Bad Day." This fic will make more sense if you read that one first, but in case you don't want to I will include a brief summary so you can understand what's going on.   
  
_Summary of Yohji's bad day:   
Yohji was having a really crummy day and decided to distract himself by raiding Ken's junk food stash under his bed. While he's snooping through Ken's stuff, he finds some gay porn hidden under the snacks. Yohji gets obsessed with the idea that Ken might be gay and tells Ken that there's a mission at a club and gets Ken to agree to go with him. Yohji has the plan of just finding out "how gay is Ken" and seeing who's his type, etc. But throughout the night he keeps slipping up and revealing that he likes Ken himself (though Yohji's not even aware of this himself.) When they get home, Ken confronts Yohji about his weird behavior all night, and it is revealed that the porn was actually -Omi's-. This development leaves Yohji on the brink of a mental breakdown and he locks himself in his room.... _   
  
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**Disclaimer:** Weiß ain't mine, 'nuff said.   
  
  
**Better Days**   
  
  
Have you ever had a day so goddamn awful that you were almost glad of it, simply because you knew things couldn't possibly get any worse? I mean, the worst days are always followed by the best ones, right?   
  
Not so for Yohji Kudoh.   
  
Bad days just seem to mean more bad weather in my forecast. But that's hardly a surprise. Just look at what my life consists of. Working. Fighting. Killing. Boozing. And....Ken.   
  
I bet that last one caught you off guard, didn't it? I was listing the depressing elements of my existence. Why would Ken make the list? Shouldn't he be one of the rare shards of happiness in my life? As one of the only people I'll ever trust, someone who has kept me hanging on to my last thread of sanity? Yes that's right, Ken keeps me sane. Or did. Back when I was still sane. Funny how the one person who had kept me from losing it was also the one who finally pushed me over the edge. And he doesn't even know it.   
  
A single day can change everything.   
A single horrible, awful, unbearable day.   
A day where I realized that I had somehow allowed myself do the one thing I had promised to never let myself to do again.   
I fell in love.   
And wouldn't you know, it was with Ken.   
  
Damnit, that wasn't supposed to happen.   
You can't love without the risk of losing it. And I lose everything.   
  
I've lost my family, my life, my career, and the one thing more precious then any of them. _Asuka_.   
  
Asuka's death hit me so hard I wanted to just...stop existing. Disappear. I was glad when the next bullet hit me, I thought we went down together. I'd die, but it was ok, cause Asuka was with me. Fuck, was I mad when I woke up in that Kritiker hospital. What business did they have saving a man who wanted to die? The only thing that stopped me from remedying that was their job proposition. It would give me a chance to avenge her. Take out the bastards who took her from me. Then I could die, and it would be all the more gratifying. But I didn't of course. The longer you live, the more you want to hold onto it. Even if you have nothing worth living for. I lost my nerve. I couldn't outright do it, so I tried to kill myself the cowardly way with booze, fast cars, and cigarettes. Which failed as well. I'm strong, and the body seems to fight to live even when the mind tells it not to. It's harder to die than you'd think.   
  
But things got better. A little. Just enough that I stopped wanting to end it all. My 'job proposition' took the unexpected turn of becoming a family to me. I had friends again, and that made life just bearable enough to keep me going.   
  
But I also knew I couldn't live through another loss like Asuka. It would break me. So I swore off love, promised I'd never let myself get too attached. I made a two-date limit for myself. A third date risks getting too close, I might actually start to care for the girl. Things would only go downhill from there. Besides, it would be selfish of me to let _them_ get attached. I'm not betting on making it to thirty. How can I put some poor girl through what I almost couldn't survive myself? No, love is definitely off-limits for me.   
  
So how did this happen?   
  
It might seem like my awful day was the great turning point where I was suddenly and un-expectantly struck down smitten with Ken. But it wasn't. It's just when I became aware of what was already there. Why else would I spend time snooping through his stuff? His room isn't _that_ interesting.   
  
It snuck up on me when I wasn't paying attention. If he had been a girl I would have been more careful. I'm always cautious around girls. I know exactly how to handle them; to keep them around, but not let them get close.   
  
But Ken's a guy, so I thought I was safe. Yohji Kudoh would never fall for a guy. Impossible. So he got to me, slowly, without me noticing. I was in denial. I didn't try to stop it because I wouldn't acknowledge it was there.   
  
And in a single day, my feelings turned around and smacked me in the face. Everything was suddenly horribly horribly clear. And it was too late for me to stop it. I guess I finally realized how I felt when for a few seconds it looked like he might actually feel the same way. It looked like I had a chance, and I was ready to throw away all my standards and promises. I made myself completely vulnerable, just for a glimmer of hope that I might be able to regain what I had had with Asuka.   
  
But I'd jumped to conclusions. Ken doesn't like guys. Of course he doesn't. I should have known there was a logical explanation for those cursed magazines under his bed. Obviously they weren't his, I mean, this is _Ken_ I'm talking about.   
He'll never love me back. He can't.   
I lost him before I even got to have him.   
They say that wise men learn from their mistakes. Fools repeat them.   
  
I guess Yohji Kudoh's a fool. 


	2. Ginkgos

  
I don't go to clubs anymore.   
I hate them.   
It doesn't matter what type of club, they _all_ remind me of Ken.   
Bars aren't much better.   
  
So I drink in my room.   
  
The others don't know this of course. I still make a big show of going out for the night. I walk to the liquor store, stock up, and when the coast seems clear I sneak back in. Believe me, sneaking up a staircase with your arms full of bottles is quite difficult to pull off unnoticed. But being an assassin leaves you with some handy skills. Sometimes I climb in the window. Just to shake things up a bit.   
  
I'm so pathetic.   
  
I heard this song once, on the radio. I don't remember what it was about, most of the lyrics slipped out of my memory almost as soon as the song was over. But there was this one line that stuck. It haunts me.   
  
_Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios _   
  
That's what I am. A broken radio.   
  
Every time I think I've found some grasp of happiness, it cuts out on me.   
  
Broken radio.   
  
Broken record.   
  
Broken Yohji.   
  
I'm so depressing when I'm drunk.   
  
"Must think of something cheerful," I tell myself.   
  
I haven't got anything particularly uplifting to focus on in my room, so I end up blankly gazing out the window. There is a tree so close to it, that if I opened my window, I could reach out and touch it. It's a ginkgo. There's a whole row of them planted along the sidewalk.   
  
I always liked ginkgos.   
  
They really stand out from the other trees. Their leaves are so distinct...and in the fall they become downright brilliant. Like solidified sunshine.   
  
They're survivors too. One of the oldest species on earth; dinosaurs stood under ginkgo trees.   
  
But look where their resilience got them.   
  
What gets planted when a garden's being designed? Or a forest rehabilitated?   
  
Not ginkgos, lord no.   
  
They plant _pretty_ trees. Sakuras, elms, and magnolias.   
  
But certainly not ginkgos.   
  
Ginkgos are _practical_ trees.   
  
Their place is in the city and along freeways. Places that are decidedly unpleasant for growing things. They can withstand the most vile and polluted environments. So that's just where they're kept; in the most vile, polluted environments. The places where other trees would choke and die.   
  
The strongest survive, but what kind of existence are they rewarded with? Not a pretty one.   
  
I need another drink.   
  
The whiskey's run out already. Figures. Guess I'll move on to Kahlúa. Bit sweet for my taste, but effective.   
  
So what was I thinking about again? Ah, cheerful things.   
  
...Cheerful things....   
  
Uh....cheerful....   
  
...things....   
  
Er, bunnies are cheerful.   
  
Yeah, when I was a kid I really liked bunnies.   
  
Well, until one bit me.   
  
I got the last laugh though.   
  
Afterwards I read up on rabbits. Found out that fifty percent of them don't even survive until their first autumn.   
  
_Take that, Mr. Bunbun. _   
  
God, I had a cynical childhood.   
  
You know what? I really suck at cheering myself up.   
  
I give up. I think I'll just drink myself ill instead.   
  
Once you feel sick enough, you stop caring if you're depressed. You're too busy dwelling on the nausea to notice the pain in your head.   
  
Not to mention the added bonus that the booze makes me sleepy.   
  
Yeah, unconsciousness is bliss.   
  
What? I coulda sworn the bottle had more kahlúa in it than _that_.   
Oh well, I came prepared. So what am I in the mood for now? Something strong, like vodka? Or something sweet, that will get me sick faster?   
Hey, not to mention I remember spotting a can of turpentine down in the shop....   
  
Wait, what was that?   
  
I think I hear something in the hallway.   
  
Shit! It's _Ken_!   
  
No, he's not talking or doing anything to give away that it's him.   
  
I just _know_.   
  
I'm so adjusted to this place that I can tell who's coming just by the noise the floorboards make as they walk on them. Ken's the easiest to tell, too. His steps are always the heaviest and most sporadic.   
  
Maybe if I'm completely silent he'll walk right past.   
No one knows I'm home, right? So he has no reason to take any special notice of my room.   
  
But the footsteps stop right outside my door.   
I hold my breath and silently pray he'll keep going.   
He doesn't of course. I've already told you that my luck has permanently dissipated.   
  
A light tap on the door.   
  
"Yohji?" It's almost a whisper. A very uncertain one at that.   
  
_I'm not here! Nope, not at all._   
  
"Yohji? Are you okay in there?"   
  
_I'm not answerrrinnng_.   
  
The doorknob's turning. Crap. I hadn't bothered to lock it since no one was supposed to know I'm here.   
  
Ken hesitantly peers around the edge of the door.   
  
When he sees me his eyes go wide and he abandons his cautiousness. In less then two seconds he's standing in front of me, and my friend the vodka has been wrenched out of my hand.   
  
"Christ Yohji! Just how much did you drink?!"   
  
I can see the mental tally marks appearing in his head as he surveys the empty bottles on my bed.   
  
"Nod mujch."   
  
I reach for an unopened bottle of brandy to replace my confiscated vodka. I don't even get all of my fingers on it before it too has been snatched by Ken.   
  
"Like hell," Ken mutters, and opens the window to empty my bottles' precious contents onto the sidewalk.   
  
"Hey! That ginkgo is oppressed enough, without you poisoning it with liquor!"   
  
"Better the tree poisoned then you," Ken grumbles under his breath. Out loud he simply states, "you're drunk."   
  
No kidding. "You're very perceptive."   
  
He clears a space on the bed and sits down next to me.   
  
"Why?"   
  
"I like to drink."   
  
"Nobody likes to drink _this_ much."   
  
"I do."   
  
He's not buying it.   
  
"Alone?"   
  
I can feel his eyes boring into me. I hate eye contact. It makes it so difficult to lie.   
  
"Why not?"   
  
"Cause people only drink this much alone when something's bothering them," Ken points out.   
  
"Nothing's bothering me," I stubbornly reply, "I'm _A.O.K_."   
  
"Look Yohji. You're a lot of things, for sure, but one thing you're not right now is okay."   
  
He puts an arm around my shoulders to try and make me feel better.   
  
It does NOT work.   
  
In fact, I think I feel a hundred times worse.   
  
He looks surprised when I suddenly spring to my feet and start shoving him back into the hallway.   
  
He doesn't fight back. He just stands by the door and looks sad.   
  
"I'll, uh, be in my room. In case you change your mind…and want to talk…to someone."   
  
"Goodnight Ken."   
  
The door is shut. And locked.   
  
I don't change my mind.   
  
  
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Okay, standard disclaimer against potential stupidity: I _do not_ endorse drinking turpentine. It's probably lethal. Yohji was just being dramatic there folks.   
  
The lyric Yohji mentioned was from the song _Sam Stone_ by John Prine. 


	3. Think of Ken

  
  
So we're all in the shop today.   
  
Saturday's are like that. So much business that we all have to work simultaneous shifts.   
  
I've just finished my fifth arrangement for the day. It's barely eleven a.m.   
  
I look up to see if there is any new task for me to start on, but the only thing in front of me is Omi.   
  
A bewildered, gaping Omi.   
  
"Something wrong, Omittichi?"   
  
"Er, no…I was just going to ask you the same question," Omi stumbles out, obviously surprised that I was the first to speak.   
  
"Nope. What would be wrong?" I ask innocently. _I only feel like all my insides have been smashed into a thousand pieces and I'm slowly bleeding to death_. "I'm fine."   
  
"It's just that…you're being so _productive_."   
  
"Saturdays are busy," I state curtly, "we can't afford to slack off."   
  
"Yeah but…."   
  
I grab a broom and throw my entire existence into sweeping the floor. I want him to realize that the conversation is _over_.   
  
I don't want to talk to Omi.   
  
Talking to Omi requires _looking_ at Omi.   
Looking at Omi reminds me of magazines.   
Magazines make me think of porn.   
Which makes me think of 'gay.'   
Which makes me think of Ken.   
Which makes me think of how Ken isn't.   
Gay, I mean.   
I don't want to think.   
  
I need to keep busy. The busier I am, the less time I have to think. The less I think, the longer I can hang onto my sanity. Busy busy busy.   
  
The problem with sweeping the floor is that it's not very intellectually stimulating.   
  
It's easy to stop concentrating on what you're doing and let your mind wander.   
  
I see a piece of crumpled up paper on the floor.   
  
Better sweep it up.   
  
Funny, that crumpled paper reminds me of Ken.   
Yeah, I know, the associations are becoming downright nonexistent, but I can't help it. _Everything_ makes me think of Ken. That flowerpot makes me think of Ken. The inventory book makes me think of Ken. Aya's pencil makes me think of eraser, makes me think of rubber, makes me think of ball, makes me think of soccer, makes me think of _Ken_.   
Think of Ken,   
Think of Ken,   
Think of Ken.   
You get the drill.   
  
Damnit, I need to STOP thinking about KEN!   
  
Oops. I just snapped the broom in half.   
  
My bad.   
  
"Something's bothering Yohji," I hear Omi whisper to Ken.   
  
Yeah, that's right guys. Just pretend like I'm not here.   
  
"I know," Ken answers. He's not even bothering to whisper, "but he won't even talk to me anymore."   
  
Um, yeah. I CAN HEAR YOU.   
  
"Do you think he's having girl problems, or something?"   
  
The broom is now in _four_ pieces.   
  
"Beats me," Ken shrugs.   
  
"Stop slacking." Aya's voice now. "You two could actually learn something from Yohji today."   
  
Yes! Aya to the rescue! _I love you Aya!_   
  
No wait. I love Ken.   
  
Arrrrrrrgggghhh!   
  
Farfarello has just lost his place as Tokyo's least sane resident.   
  
"We ought to do something to cheer him up," says Omi.   
  
"Yeah, that's a good idea," agrees Ken.   
  
Oh dear god. I'm doomed.   
  



	4. Yohji's Sanity

  
Night. A graveyard.   
  
The air is laced with the scent of wet dirt. The newly laid granite in front of me is graced with but two words. _Yohji's Sanity_.   
  
To its left lies an older specimen. _Yohji's Self Respect_.   
  
The right, _Yohji's Happiness_.   
  
The cattleyas in my hand are unceremoniously tossed onto the disturbed earth, liberating me to reach for another glass of malt whiskey.   
  
I have officially lost it.   
  
I'm talking to myself now. Not snippy little comments in my head, like before, but full fledged spoken conversations.   
  
I'm beginning to realize I'm not all that interesting to talk to.   
  
Today the conversation has circled back to where I always get stuck.   
  
I state flatly, "Ken."   
  
"Oh no, not that again," I answer myself.   
  
"Something needs to be done about it," chides practical Yohji.   
  
"Yeah, you need to start getting over it," I taunt back   
  
"That's hopeless," I remind myself, "I can't even get over Asuka, and she's fucking _dead_!"   
  
"Good point. Yep, you're pretty pathetic."   
  
Gee thanks, Yohji's logic.   
  
"You're not helping," I pout.   
  
"Well, what do you want me to do?"   
  
"I need to tell him."   
  
"You can't tell him!"   
  
"I'll feel better if I talk to someone about it," says reasonable Yohji.   
  
"So talk to someone else," paranoid Yohji interjects, "it will weird Ken out."   
  
"Ken is understanding," I remind myself.   
  
"He'll just be nice out of pity," echoes my paranoia.   
  
"He's not like that,"   
  
"He'll act different; even if he doesn't mean to."   
  
"I don't know that for sure," my hopeful side insists.   
  
"But are you willing to risk it?"   
  
"…." None of the Yohji's have an answer for that….   
  
"You can always tell him later."   
  
"Later one of us might be dead."   
  
As par usual, I find myself right back to where I started, nothing accomplished other than knocking my mental stability further off kilter.   
  
I'm about to go into round two of the infinite debate, but my concentration is promptly broken by fierce knocking on the door.   
  
For crying out loud, can't a guy even sit in his room and lose his mind in peace? Before I get a chance to answer, the knocking stops and the door is thrown open.   
  
"C'mon Yohji! You're going out with us tonight!"   
  
Thud.   
  
What was that? Oh, my mouth dropping.   
  
Standing before me are two characters whom I can just barely recognize as Ken and Omi. Ken is decked out in that outfit I made him get two weeks ago. And Omi…. Omi looks downright _illegal_. I never knew he owned clothes _like that_.   
  
Fuck, are they trying to _KILL_ me?!   
  
This is sooo not good.   
  
They both grab me and start dragging me off the bed.   
  
"Hurry up and change Yohji! We're taking you out!"   
  
What I mean to say to this is, "no way, I'm tired and need to stay in."   
  
What comes out though, is, "sure, why not?"   
  
Damnit, even my brain has some sort of vendetta against me today.   
  
"Er, just give me a moment, ok?"   
  
"Sure thing!"   
  
My two, uh, _comrades_ bounce out into the hallway to wait for me.   
  
ShitshitshitthisisnotgoodatallwhatthefuckamIgoingtodo?!   
  
"Must stay calm. I can't lose control of myself tonight."   
  
How the hell am I going to not lose control when Ken's dressed like _that_?!   
  
And Omi's not helping either!!! What was his shirt made of, _Saran wrap_?!   
  
Don't they know the danger they're putting themselves in? It's like they _want_ me to molest them or something!   
  
Ok ok ok. I can handle this. I'll just go out with them, pretend to have a good time, and then they'll leave me alone. Must act like normal Yohji.   
  
Alrighty. So what would normal Yohji wear?   
  
Normal Yohji would dress like a skank.   
  
No-can-do. That will only make it harder for me to stay in my right mind.   
  
I look in my closet and make an unpleasant discovery.   
  
Oh shit! I don't own any non-skanky clothes!   
  
I am _so_ doomed.   
  
After several minutes of angsting in my closet, I finally reemerge dressed in black jeans and my most conservative crop top. Oh boy, I'm really in trouble when a crop top is 'conservative.'   
  
We haven't even left the house yet, but I've already got my sunglasses in place. I'm going to need all the help I can get. Maybe I should grab my coat too. It's about thirty five degrees C out*, but what the hell, I'm a desperate man.   
  
Ken and Omi exchange slightly puzzled expressions when I dash back into my room and return with my trench coat. What's their problem? It's only July. Besides, I'm not the one who runs around in shorts in the middle of February.   
  
"Eh, don't you think you're a bit overdressed for going to a club in the middle of summer, Yotan?" Ken asks innocently enough.   
  
Gah! Why's he using my nickname all of the sudden? The very last thing in the world I need right now is Ken calling me by a cutesy nickname and implying that he's thinking about me in states of further undress! Can't he see what he's _doing_ to me?! I'm about thirty seconds away from panicking and barricading myself back in my room. But then they'd know that something was wrong and might start trying to figure out what…. _Calm down and get a grip Yohji!_   
  
"I think I'm…coming down…with a cold…or something…."   
  
"Oh, really?" Ken looks fairly concerned. _I could get used to him looking at me like that…Stop that train of thought right there Yohji…._ "Maybe we should stay in after all. We could just watch a movie or something…."   
  
Yes! A perfect opening to escape! I'm saved!   
  
"No, it's okay. I'll be alright."   
  
_What the fu--?_ Why did I say _that_?! Something definitely got lost in the translation from brain to mouth. Or maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment….I'm guessing the latter.   
  
I'm mentally kicking myself all the way to the car.   
  
Oh that's right, the _car_.   
  
_My car._   
  
How thoughtful of them to invite me out when _I'm_ the only one who can drive! Ok, so I don't really mind that so much. I'm trying to trick myself into being irritated so I won't have time to think about how tight Ken's pants are.   
  
But to my surprise Ken and Omi don't lead me to my car. Instead I find myself standing in front of their bikes.   
  
"Uh, guys…."   
  
"We want to surprise you, Yohji kun! So we're gonna drive tonight!"   
  
"But there's _three_ of us, and only _two_ bikes…."   
  
"Oh, don't worry about that! My bike's bigger, so you can ride with me!" Ken helpfully volunteers.   
  
Poor, naïve Ken….You would not be so eager if you only knew what I was thinking right now….   
  
"I never told you Ken, because I didn't want you thinking less of me…but I am downright _terrified_ of motorcycles."   
  
Aw man, I _know_ I could have come up with a better excuse than _that_! Whats wrong with me!   
  
Ken now has this adorable shocked expression on his face, clearly stating _'How is it possible to not like motorcycles?' _   
  
"But they're so much fun! C'mon Yotan, I promise you'll like it! Just hold on tight if you get scared."   
  
Craaaap. I am digging myself further and further into a hole here. How can I turn down an offer like that?! Maybe I should update my will tonight….   
  
I have a feeling this is going to be a _long_ ride….   
  
* * *   
  
**A/N:*** That's Celsius (what they use in Japan) = 95 degrees F 


	5. Motorcycles

  
I have preformed missions with less care and attention than I am dedicating to climbing upon the back of Ken's bike right now.   
  
The less physical contact I can manage, the longer I'll hold out before slipping up and igniting some sort of social catastrophe.   
  
The size of the bike is _not_ in my favor.   
  
Fortunately, I discover that there are some handles built in behind the seat, obviously designed for a passenger to hold on to. This fills me with an enormous sense of relief. I don't have to torture myself by clinging onto Ken. Talk about tempting fate.   
  
Since the handles are slightly behind me, it is fairly awkward to hang on and keep my balance. I do not feel nearly as secure as I would with an anchor ahead of me, but I guess I'll have to tough it out. Ken and Omi ride these things everyday, just how bad can it be?   
  
….   
  
You know, I _shouldn't_ have said that.   
  
Asking 'how bad can it be?' is like a first class ticket to miseryville.   
  
Oh wait. I'm already _in_ miseryville.   
  
I guess that means I'm now headed to like, miseryville's twisted suburbs of agony.   
  
Yeah, something like that.   
  
At first, it seemed ok. It made me a bit nervous to be going so fast with no barriers between my fragile skin and the jagged pavement, but hey, I'm a tough guy. I could handle it.   
  
At least I _thought_ I could handle it...until Ken stopped driving in a straight line.   
  
Yes, the need to turn corners brought me to understand a whole new level of fear.   
  
You see, turning corners on a motorcycle is _not_ like turning corners on a bike. A bicycle is usually going nice and slow, and when you turn the corner you stay sanely perpendicular to the street. But a motorcycle...a motorcycle is going too fast to stay upright. In order to make a motorcycle turn, it is necessary to _lean_ in the direction you want to go. The faster you're driving, the harder you have to lean. And Ken drives fucking fast!   
  
When your face is only four inches from the street, your skin feels a hell of a lot more fragile, and the pavement a hell of a lot more jagged.   
  
Ok, so maybe we weren't quite as close as four inches, but it sure _felt_ like it.   
  
You'd think that being an assassin would numb one to the concept of pain and blood. Not true at all; at least not for me. It just adds whole new levels of gory-ness to my nightmares.   
  
I started thinking about just how vulnerable skin is. I mean, you can cut it with just a friggin' piece of paper! And that doesn't even require high speeds. And look at the pavement! It's all made up of rocks and glass and sand! With a million sharp and pointy dimensions! It would hurt just falling on it, let alone hitting it at sixty fucking kilometers per hour!   
  
I can literally _feel_ my skin being grated off and my bones crunching.... No wonder Ken always wears that stupid leather jacket!   
  
So I'd thought I was just making up a lame excuse to get out of riding with Ken, but by George, I really _am_ terrified of motorcycles.   
  
Could this possibly suck any more?   
  
The handles behind me are seriously not providing enough security for my overactive imagination. My hands are getting sweaty from gripping them so tight, which in turn is making the metal slippery....   
  
We hit a particularly nasty turn, and I let out an involuntary yelp and grab hold of Ken as if my very life depended on it (which it _does_ if you ask me.)   
  
Once we straighten out again, my common sense wrestles control back from my survival instincts and I realize what an awkward position I have put myself in. I instantly release my death-grip on Ken. I'm not really willing to go back to the slippery handles though, so I try to reposition myself to have a less invasive hold on him.   
  
First, I try hanging on to his vest instead of him, but I'm afraid that pulling on his clothes will unbalance him, and further endanger us.   
  
So next I cautiously place one hand on either side of his ribs (seeming to be a nice safe spot; far enough from any zones that may be interpreted as suggestive,) careful to allow no more contact than is necessary to maintain a secure grip.   
  
This is all well and good for about 7.3 minutes.   
  
Then we hit another sharp turn, and I throw caution to hell.   
  
I'll worry about my 'Ken problem' after I have ensured that I will actually live through the night. Right now my odds seem shaky at best.   
  
Not only do I now have both arms completely encircling him in a resumed death grip, but I've buried my head against his back too. Hey, at this point it's all or nothing, right? I might as well indulge myself as long as I've already been forced to cross the line. Fear is a nice solid alibi, anyway.   
  
"How are you doing back there?" Ken calls out over the noise of the wind and motor.   
  
"Just...swell," I holler back.   
  
Which has now ceased to be a lie. It's amazing the instant level of security I resumed the second I latched onto Ken. In fact, I felt so much better, that the knot of fear in my stomach quickly faded-only to be replaced by my earlier discomfort at my proximity to Ken.   
  
Damnit, any other day Ken would be wearing a nice bulky leather jacket that would offer me some sort of protection from my disobedient libido. But noooo. Today he has to be wearing a flimsy vest with nothing underneath! A flimsy vest which keeps riding up, and leaving nothing to stop the contact between my arms and his bare stomach! And the worst thing is, despite how uneasy this is making me feel, I am _seriously_ enjoying it.   
  
My head is practically _screaming_ at me how wrong it is. I am such a terrible friend. Ken would _never_ want me hanging on to him like this if he knew how it was making me feel. But he hasn't a clue...I don't get _why_ he hasn't a clue-I think I've been pathetically obvious in fact...but that's just Ken.   
  
And here I am abusing his trusting nature. God, I suck.   
  
I am completely lost in my observations of how nice Ken feels; how wrong it is that I think this; and the fact that Ken smells delightfully of 'Kao White' soap, when his bike slows to a halt. It takes a few moments for my crowded consciousness to register this fact, and my daze is broken by the sensation of Ken turning around and telling me that, "it's alright to let go now."   
  
My arms release their grip and I spring back almost as if burned-embarrassed to still be clinging so tightly after the bike has stopped. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten where I was sitting, and the force of springing backwards causes me to fall right over the end of the bike-landing smack on that pavement that I was so un-fondly pondering earlier this evening.   
  
Ken looks like he's trying to mask amusement with concern, as he stoops to help me up.   
  
"I guess you weren't kidding when you said that you were scared of motorcycles," Ken chuckles.   
  
"Would I lie to you?" I ask, without really thinking (of course.) Oh damn, that was HORRIBLE wording. I feel lower than pond scum right now. Argh! I have _got_ to keep my mouth shut tonight!   
  
The sound of another motor signals that Omi is pulling up right behind us now. I finally take a minute to look around and scope out our surroundings.   
  
We are stopped in front of a low building with a sign spelling out (in massive bamboo letters,) "Bar Jam Jam."   
  
Well...this place looks...interesting.   
  



	6. Bar Jam Jam

**A/N:**I will not hold responsibility for emotional damage inferred by the blatant lack of taste in this chapter. You have been warned.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
"All handmade style bar since 1992."   
  
I raise an eyebrow after reading the sign's romanji footnote.   
  
"Hm...it could just be that my English is rusty...but that _really_ doesn't sound right."   
  
"Nope," Omi giggles, "but since when does English _ever_ sound right?"   
  
"Eh. Good point," I shrug and follow them through the swinging doors.   
  
Okaaay. Now this is getting just a bit _weird_. The place looks like some sort of island tiki lounge...but the music playing...well, it's like _techno_ versions of old _disco_ classics. As I said: weeiirrd.   
  
Do Ken and Omi seriously picture this as the type of place that I'd hang out at? Or is this some sort of bizarre joke they're having? My confidence in the sincerity of my friends is plummeting, and I'm feeling lousier than ever.   
  
"Omi!" A girl in a grass skirt and two guys (one in a Hawaiian shirt and the other in lace-up bellbottoms [yes, _just_ bellbottoms] ) run over and start chatting. Ok, I guess that answers my curiosity. Apparently, this is the type of place that _Omi_ hangs out at. Egad, and I thought I knew these people!   
  
I need a drink. I plop down at the nearest table and signal a waiter.   
  
"I'll take a white russian, please," I ask.   
  
"A what?" The waiter just stands there with a completely ignorant expression plastered across his face.   
  
He's got to be kidding. Is he deaf or something? "A. White. Russian. Please."   
  
"Please order off the menu, sir."   
  
SAY WHAT?! Do _not_ tell me my lovely friends dragged me to a bar so incompetent that it can't even make something as simple as a fucking white russian! This is an outrage! Inconceivable! This is-   
  
"They have themed names for all the drinks, Yohji. Here, I'll look it up for you."   
  
Ken pauses for a minute and flips through the menu.   
  
"He wants a 'shrunken head deluxe.' Thanks."   
  
Ew. What an unappetizing name for a drink. Maybe it's to discourage people from ordering it-hey wait a minute! Since when does Ken even know what makes up a white russian anyway?! Did I get sucked into some sort of bizzaro universe or something?   
  
I turn to look at Ken and he is of course completely oblivious to the utter shock scrawled across my face. He is not only not noticing my surprise, but is completely preoccupied with bobbing his head and humming along to 'Our House' which just started playing on the speakers.   
  
Yep. Definitely going with bizzaro universe. For sure.   
  
The waiter returns with my drink, which is presented in a little replica of one of those heads on Easter Island. Good god, I had not truly experienced 'tacky' until this day. Who knew what I was missing?   
  
Apparently Ken ordered a drink too. I can't really identify what it is. It's a sort of yellow-orange color....   
  
The glass of his anonymous drink is lifted, leading my attention from the beverage to Ken's face. And time stops. Even with a hideously tacky Easter Island souvenir glass in front of it, his face is gorgeous. He's smiling, and looks so happy. That drink must be something he really likes....   
  
Ah-staring-staring-must stop! Can't let Ken notice I'm staring! I manage to move my gaze downwards, but although I'm not looking at his face, I'm still staring. Oh, bad Yohji! Stop!   
  
Hey! I notice that Ken is wearing the choker I bought him the night of our, uh, 'incident.' He threw a fit about it then, and only wore it 'for the sake of the mission.' Why is he wearing it _now_? It doesn't..._mean_ something...does it? No, stop being stupid, Yohji. You convinced him how stylish it was. He just wants to look cool at the bar. Yep, that's _it_.   
  
Oh shit! I forgot to stop staring!   
  
I quickly down the rest of my drink and frantically look for a distraction. There is a bowl (actually, half a coconut) full of sugar packets on the table. I launch into a concentrated attempt at building a tower out of them. It's only three or four packets high by the time Ken notices. He smiles at me. I wince.   
  
"Bored already, Yotan?"   
  
Ah! _What_ is up with this 'Yotan' business? Since when has he used my nickname so many times in twenty-four hours? Why start _now_? It's not fair!   
  
"Hey, the music's very dance-able."   
  
I stop and listen. It sounds like... 'Disco Inferno'...sigh.   
  
"Yeah but...my drinks a bit rich. I think I'd feel sick dancing right now."   
  
"Oh, Okay."   
  
Ken is practically beaming. What's up with him?   
  
"Like pinball?" Ken's question catches me a bit off guard.   
  
"Er, yeah, sure, I like pinball."   
  
Hey! Great idea Ken! That game takes a lot of concentration. Perfect for distracting me!   
  
"Oh good! You'll really like the one they have here! It's 'Playboy-themed.' Every time you shoot the ramp, it flashes a centerfold of Yuko Ogura. And if you get a 'multi-ball' it-"   
  
"On second thought, I'm not really in the mood for pinball right now."   
  
Quick, where is something to bang my head against? I need to be unconscious A.S.A.P. I do the next best thing and get another drink. Straight alcohol this time. Make that a double.   
  
"Are you feeling ok, Yohji?"   
  
Oh, fuck, why does he have to care? Just leave me alone and let me die....   
  
"Sure...I'm just..." I pause to drain my third glass in one gulp, "_super_."   
  
Ken's carefree look is slowly being displaced by worry. But the heavens are merciful and he says nothing more.   
  
  



	7. Sake and Fabio

  
I'm sitting and staring at Ken.   
  
Ken's sitting and staring back.   
  
Uncomfortable silence. Dèja vu.   
  
"Sooo…" Ken feels obligated to start the conversation, "did you hear the _horrible_ news?"   
  
"Horrible news?" I ask, " er, no. What happened?"   
  
"England traded David Beckham to Madrid!"   
  
"Uh…."   
  
"They ship off their best player _ever_, just cause the manager didn't like him!"   
  
"Uh Ken---"   
  
"I mean, this is like a total identity crisis for me! Manchester was my _favorite_ foreign team! But without Beckham, I just don't know!" Ken throws his arms up in exasperation, "do I still like Manchester, or should I like Madrid now?! Oh horrors---"   
  
"KEN."   
  
Ken finally pauses in his rant and looks at me.   
  
"Yah?"   
  
"Please…I'd like to just be alone right now."   
  
His lively expression instantly drops away.   
  
"Fine," he says, frowning, "be miserable all by yourself then."   
  
He pauses for a minute and then adds, "I'm going to look for Omi."   
  
I discreetly watch him wander off, and note that he has no intention at all of finding Omi. He's heading straight towards the pinball machine.   
  
I guess Ken has a thing for Yuko Oguro.   
  
Fucking fantastic.   
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
I look down at my glass and conclude that it's too much trouble to keep ordering refills. I give up on the liquor and just get a pitcher of sake instead.   
  
The good stuff; served cold.   
  
I reach for the sake glass provided with my pitcher, but I change my mind and decide that it would be more efficient to reuse my empty scotch glass instead.   
  
Sake cups were not designed for alcoholics.   
  
Nothing in this frigging country was designed for excess of moderation.   
  
Screw moderate.   
  
I've been in excess of moderation for longer than I can remember now. Live life to the fullest I say, cause you're gonna die. Much sooner than you think. People who live long enough to kick the bucket from cancer? They're the lucky ones. Most likely you'll get flattened by a semi. While crossing a road with a 15 km speed limit. Or you'll get gangrene from liposuction malpractice.   
  
Yeah, it's never what you expect.   
  


* * * * * * * 

  
  
The alcohol is finally starting to set in.   
  
Some people describe this feeling as going fuzzy. My head doesn't feel fuzzy at all. I'm the exact opposite, actually. Everything gets clearer. Too clear.   
  
It's like suddenly you've put on 3-D glasses.   
  
Except you're already in 3-D. So where does that put you? 4-D? No wait, that's time. 5-D? 3 ½ -D?   
  
I dunno.   
  
It's like everything feels so real, it becomes fake. You become detached. The realness of your surroundings exceed you, and all you can do is sit back and watch.   
  
I'm not making any sense.   
  
That happens. My mind wanders when I'm drunk.   
  
So where was I?   
  
Ah, that's right. Living life to the fullest.   
  
My motto. My hypocrisy.   
  
Obviously, I can't even take my own advice. If I could, I would currently have myself thrown at Ken's feet in an unabashed proclamation of my undying affection. An open novel for all the world---er, bar---to read.   
  
Damnit, I wouldn't even be a good novel.   
  
I'm like one of those trashy books wives buy at the supermarket and read while stuck in traffic. You know, the kind with Fabio on the cover.   
  
Did you know that Fabio has his own line of male beauty products?   
  
He does promotions on tv. I've seen them.   
  
He says, "Real men wax."   
  
Since when is Fabio a real man?   
  
He's a celebrity. A symbol. A figment in the minds of ten thousand lonely women.   
  
Fabio isn't real.   
  
Maybe if a real person told me, I'd listen.   
  
Maybe if Aya said---no, Aya isn't real either.   
  
Ken then?   
  
Oh Fuck, that's right. Ken.   
  
Ken's supposed to be the topic here. Me and my damn tangents.   
  
So I was thinking---what was I thinking---I was thinking I should take a chance and throw myself to the wolves. I should tear my heart out and hand it over. Maybe the wolves would hand me back a shred of happiness. Or maybe they'd just chew on it till they got bored and then drop it in a hole somewhere. Take a leak on it. Kick up some dirt. At this point I shouldn't care, right?   
  
I already gamble with my health, my job, my life. Why not Ken?   
  
It's not like I'm happy _now_.   
  
What's there to lose?   
  
I guess I'm just weak.   
  
Because I can't do it. I can't lose.   
  
If I lost Ken I'd be completely empty.   
  
Can't do it. Can't lose Ken. Can't lose myself.   
  
Better a friend then nothing.   
  
I keep telling myself this.   
  
It could always be worse.   
  
Better a friend then nothing.   
  
I'm such a lousy liar.   
  


* * * * * * * 

  
  
Now I've gone and done it. I drank too much. My stomach can't take it. Serves me right. I knew better than to drink on an empty stomach.   
  
Or maybe I _wanted_ to get sick?   
  
I can't really think straight anymore.   
  
Think _straight_. Ha. Ah ha ha ha…er…I can't believe I just found that funny. Pretend I didn't say that. Ugh.   
  
I try to stand up, but have to catch onto the chair for support. I feel….sea sick. Have you ever been sea sick? I don't think I have. I'm actually pretty good on boats. I used to get car sick though. When I was a kid I used to try to read during long car rides. The motion made me nauseous when I concentrated on the words. But I kept doing it. I always thought, _'I'll just stop when I start to feel sick.'_ But the story would always be too interesting and I wouldn't stop. Next thing I knew the driver would have to pull over.   
  
Even as a kid I was self destructive.   
  
But I don't like thinking about those days. They make me depressed.   
  
I'm already depressed, though.   
  
Where was I?   
  
That's right, I was sick. Still am sick.   
  
Need to find a bathroom. Fast.   
  
I can feel the burning sensation creeping up my esophagus. Wait. Maybe I should drink some water first. If I down a lot of water it will make it easier to throw up. It'll dilute the stomach acid. Burn my throat less. No. I deserve the pain. I want to suffer. Skip the water. I'll barely make it there in time as is, anyway.   
  


* * * * * * * 

  
  
With my stomach empty, I feel immensely better. So much better that I could start drinking all over again. But I won't do that. I'm not quite that pathetic. Not yet.   
  
I wander over towards the lounge section of the bar. There's some threadbare furniture there. None of the colors match. I pick a lime green armchair. It's overstuffed and looks like a promising place to sleep. If only it weren't so fucking loud in here.   
  
As if in answer to my thoughts, the music changes. Completely. No more techno or disco. It's slow and quasi modern. I hate slow music. I always feel like it's talking to me. Lecturing me, more often.   
  
Stupid sentimental drivel.   
  
I pull my legs up into the chair, and loop my arms around them to keep my feet from sliding off. I'm too tall for this to work well, but I somehow manage to jam myself in place. I wedge my head between my knees and the side of the chair. My neck is going to kill me when I get up. But I feel better this way. Safer.   
  
I try to clear my mind. I concentrate on…being unconscious. I just need a nap. Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe.   
  
But it's still too loud. Even with the change in music. It's actually a change for the worse, I think.   
  
I can zone the loud music out. Just turn it into background noise. But it's hard not to pay attention to the slower stuff. It sneaks up on you. You find yourself listening when you don't mean to. And then it gets stuck in your head; your very own broken record to torment you.   
  
I don't recognize the song that's playing now. But it's getting on my nerves. It's another fucking love song. Why does every band on earth have to write at least a dozen love songs? They've been done to death. Nobody's ever original any more.   
  
_It doesn't kill you, It's not a one-way ticket to a lonely life.   
It might break your heart, but the physical risk is low._   
  
Ha. The writer obviously wasn't in love with an assassin. An assassin who's life depends on you being in your right mind. Of separating you feelings from 'the mission.'   
  
_You might feel so bad that you wanna die   
But if you died you would never know   
That it didn't kill you   
Soon you would've felt better._   
  
Yeah, Like hell.   
  
_I haven't felt so bad that I wanted to die   
But if I died I would never know   
Love doesn't kill you   
It's supposed to make you feel better. _   
  
Hn. Since when did anything ever go as it was _supposed_?!   
  
_You're never gonna feel any better   
Once you're dead, you don't get any deader   
And you get no loving and you feel no pain   
Never have to lose again. _   
  
That's it. This fucking song is hitting too close to home. I lose my temper and jump out of my chair. I'm not thinking clearly at all.   
  
I feel my fist shaking in the air….   
  
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LOVE?! YOU'RE JUST A FUCKING MUSICIAN! I BET YOU GET ANYONE YOU FUCKING WANT! GO LIVE IN THE REAL WORLD AND STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO FUCKING DO WITH MY LIFE!   
  
Oh shit. Was that me yelling? I'm losing it. Scratch that, already lost it. The noise level has dropped considerably. Everyone has turned and is staring at me. The word 'crazy' is written on everyone's faces. Followed by the word 'drunk.' If they were to add a third word, I'm guessing it would be 'loser.'   
  
Please, I'm _praying_ that Ken wasn't near enough to hear that.   
  
I fall back onto the chair and bury my head between my knees. My fingers knot themselves in my hair and I flatten my arms against the sides of my head. The noise level is slowly returning to normal; my outburst being quickly dismissed.   
  
My stomach is twisting into knots. I feel nauseous and sick again, but this time there's no alcohol to blame it on. I feel dizzy, and it's getting difficult to focus on anything at all.   
  
How long has it been since Ken left? Since we got here? Until we…er…til…ugh.   
  
It's really hot in here. It's hard to breathe.   
  
Fresh air…I'll just step outside for a minute. I'll come right back.   
  
Why won't my knees work? When I try to get up, I find myself on the floor. Too much trouble to move. I'll stay here until the room stops spinning. Hey, I hadn't even noticed it was spinning till now. Weird.   
  
That's right, I was gonna take a nap before that demented song started. Here's as good a place as any. The floor isn't that hard. I've slept in worse places before. I….   
  


* * * * * * * 

  
  
…Only stopped watching a minute…   
  


…drank too much….

.   
  
…..over there…..

…..floor….

  
  


….completely trashed….

.   
  
….what were we thinking….   
  


….to let…. 

  
  
.…call Aya….   
  


. ….car….

  
  
  
Voices. They sound…familiar. Can't see anything though….   
  
Someone's lifting me up. So dizzy!   
  
I try to walk, but it's too hard.   
…I think….   
...….I think….   
  
…I'm blacking out again….   
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
Song: _Love Doesn't Kill You_ by Fastball. 


	8. You KNEW!

I wake up feeling as though I've just had an awful nightmare, but I can't remember what it was.   
  
I can't remember much of anything, as it turns out.   
  
I'm not even sure where I am.   
  
Looking around, I make an inventory of my surroundings.   
  
I'm in a bed.   
  
It's pretty comfortable, and it smells like…fabric softener.   
  
More specifically, the brand of fabric softener _that I use_.   
  
In fact, I do believe this is _my_ bed.   
  
Huh. I don't even remember coming home last night; much less making it into bed. That's hardly a first, though.   
  
I resume my efforts to reorient myself….Judging by how crappy I feel, things did not go well last night.   
  
And…oh shit, I was with Ken and Omi!   
  
I feel a wave of panic start. I could have said _anything_ to them! _Done_ anything to them!   
  
Oh god, why can't I remember?!!   
  
I look at my watch. It's noon!   
  
Usually someone would have forced me up by now. The fact that I'm still here means that they either felt sorry for me…or were so disgusted with me that they didn't want me around. Neither proposition is very reassuring. I'm terrified to find out what happened.   
  
I think I'll stay under my covers in blissful ignorance for a while.   
  
Yet…not knowing what happened is _killing_ me!   
  
I don't think I can stand it. I need to find out what unspeakable events transpired. I'll be a man and face my proverbial firing squad.   
  
My room is silently vacated as I venture out into the hallway.   
  
I pause though, when I reach the top of the stairs. I can hear voices coming from the kitchen.   
  
They're undoubtedly Ken and Omi's.   
  
Maybe I'll postpone my descent for a few minutes. I might be able to collect some information to help me remember whatever ass-holish incidents I was inevitably involved in.   
  
"Eh, Omi, I was really impressed last night. I had no idea you could dance so well."   
  
"Oh…thanks." Nervous laughter, "it's just practice, Ken. You're not so bad either. You'd be really great if you just went out more."   
  
"I don't know about that…but I _do_ kick ass at pinball! My best game was 140 million points! I made it all the way up to _Miss October_. I'll be top of the high score list by next month, just wait and see!"   
  
Giggling, obviously Omi. "You really crack me up sometimes, Ken. It's really funny hearing you brag about something that contains the phrase 'Miss October'."   
  
"Hey!" Ken sounds defensive, "I just really like pinball! It's not _my_ fault the machine at your favorite bar has a stupid theme."   
  
Hm…dancing, pinball…bits of last night are starting to come back to me.   
  
And---I never noticed before just how _chummy_ Ken and Omi are together!   
  
And---wait a minute! It sounded like they go out together on a regular basis---they were definitely planning on going back to that bar….   
  
I suddenly remember just how slutty Omi was dressed last night. Was he….dressed like that _for Ken_?!   
  
Could it be, that Ken _does_ like guys---but I didn't notice because he's secretly involved with Omi?!   
  
Of course he wouldn't check other guys out if he already had someone!   
  
Oh. My. God.   
  
The conversation has fallen completely silent.   
  
_Too_ silent if you ask me!   
  
Ken and Omi can't stand that sort of silence! They like to talk too much---they must be preoccupied _doing_ something!!!   
  
My imagination is all too eager to fill in the missing information.   
  
I can see Ken and Omi happily discussing their night out….   
  
Suddenly, their eyes lock. A meaningful---no, make that _soul searching_ gaze is exchanged, and they fall silent---too overcome with desire for one another to continue their conversation. The spell is broken by Ken---who grabs Omi and forces him onto the table. They grasp each other's hands as fierce, passionate kisses are exchanged. Omi breaks free of Ken's grasp so that he can rip off Ken's shirt---and---and----   
  
Oh my god!   
  
They can't do _that_ in the kitchen! Anyone could see them! I have to stop them before Aya finds out!   
  
I bolt down the stairs taking the steps two at a time. I'm practically hyperventilating by the time I reach the bottom. I pause for a second to catch my breath and brace myself for the unspeakable scene I'm certain lies beyond the door.   
  
The knob turns and….   
  
The table is devoid of illicit lovemaking.   
  
Wow. That was quick. Are they finished already?   
  
No wait…Ken is sitting at the table reading a sports magazine.   
  
I quickly scan the rest of the room, and spot Omi standing at the counter. He's scooping rice out of the rice cooker. All articles of clothing are intact and in place. I slump backwards against the door in profound relief.   
  
Almost simultaneously, both boys turn and stare at me.   
  
"Er…you ok Yohji? You seem really upset."   
  
"No…no, I'm fine!" I choke out, between gasps for air. And I really mean it too. Being spared the scene I was anticipating…well I feel just _dandy_.   
  
"You still don't seem so well," Omi states, exuding concern, "how do you feel this morning? Are you still sick?"   
  
He comes over and starts steering me towards a place that has already been set at the table.   
  
"Nothing some aspirin and coffee won't fix," I reply, gratefully noting the coffee pot and empty mug sitting in easy reach on the table.   
  
As I start to pour my coffee, I notice a white plastic bottle sitting on the empty plate in front of me. What good friends I have! They must have anticipated I'd want painkillers too. Excellent!   
  
I pick the bottle up, and realize it's most definitely _not_ aspirin. In fact, it does not look like any brand I recognize. I pull the bottle closer so I can read the label:   
  
Seratonindopomoximitamene: _Depresto!_™   
  
Heeeey! This looks like…_antidepressants_!   
  
"What the fuck is this?!" I demand, holding up the bottle.   
  
"Calm down Yohji!" Omi's instantly behind me and rubbing my shoulders, "we're worried about you, we just want you to feel better."   
  
"Yeah, you scared the shit out of us last night!" Ken adds, looking up from his magazine, "we called Manx this morning and had her talk to some Kritiker doctors."   
  
"I'm NOT depressed!" I angrily insist.   
  
Ken rolls his eyes. "Oh come off it Yohji. You're probably the most depressed guy I've ever met."   
  
"It's true," chimes Omi, "you've even gotten worse than Aya Kun."   
  
"I've seen death row convicts with cheerier dispositions."   
  
Thanks Ken, rub it in.   
  
"These won't help," I say through gritted teeth.   
  
"It's nothing to be ashamed of Yohji Kun!" Continues Omi, "It's a chemical imbalance; it's not your fault."   
  
"I'm telling you," I say, losing contol of my temper, "these won't do a fucking thing! I don't have a fucking 'imbalance'! I wish that _was_ the fucking problem, but it's not! There has not been a medicine invented that will fix my problem!"   
  
Crack! That was the bottle hitting the wall, after being thrown by yours truly, of course. A thousand little blue capsules rain down upon the floor.   
  
"Well then," says Ken, calmly leaning forward across the table, "if you're _that_ certain they won't help, then it just puts all the more pressure on you to fix the problem yourself."   
  
"You don't know what you're saying," I answer. My voice is getting low and dangerous.   
  
"I know _exactly_ what I'm saying," Ken replies, "something's bothering you, and you obviously aren't doing a good job of dealing with it."   
  
"I'm FINE."   
  
"Like hell you are. It's not healthy to bottle things up like this. You need to face your problems."   
  
"What if…" I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "what if I told you…that _you_ are the problem?"   
  
Ken doesn't look fazed at all.   
  
"I'm really that annoying, eh?" Ken says, still completely calm, "I can take it. Sock it to me. Tell me how much you _hate_ me."   
  
It must have been the challenging tone in Ken's voice that makes me lose it, because I completely snap.   
  
All that self control I worked up? Right out the window.   
  
I grab Ken's shirt and pull him further across the table.   
  
"I _don't_ hate you! I could _never_ hate you! The problem's that I _love_ you, you fucking moron!"   
  
And with that, I pull him completely onto the table and have at him.   
  
Not one of my best kisses, I must admit. It was sort of upside-downy, and a bit too violent for my taste. Not to mention the timing was entirely off.   
  
But…_damn_, it was still good.   
  
I refuse to open my eyes immediately afterwards. I don't want to face the repercussions of my actions.   
  
I don't want to see Ken looking shocked and horrified.   
  
I don't want to be rejected.   
  
What finally compels me to look is the sound of laughter.   
  
Not exactly what I was expecting…   
  
I'm met with the sight of Omi doubled over and holding his sides. He's laughing so hard there's tears rolling down his face.   
  
Er…am I missing something?   
  
I look at Ken…and he's grinning like a frigging maniac.   
  
"It's about time!" Ken exclaims, "christ, how long was that?! Sixteen days?!"   
  
"Eighteen," Omi manages to choke out, "it was eighteen days."   
  
"Aya wins the bet then," says Ken, "I was sure he'd crack sooner than that."   
  
"Me too," replies Omi, still giggling, "what took you so long, Yohji Kun?"   
  
"Yeah, seriously Yohji, why didn't you say something sooner?" Ken asks, putting his arm around me.   
  
About all I'm capable of doing at this moment is stand here like an idiot, and blink.   
  
It's taking a few minutes for all of this information to come together.   
  
They…knew. Both Ken and Omi knew this entire time! And they never said a thing to me!   
  
"You _knew_?!....You…you ASSHOLE!! You _KNEW_!"   
  
I grab Ken's shirt and pull him up so he's at my eye level. He's still grinning…ooh, I'm really fighting back the urge to punch that smug expression right off his face!   
  
"Of course we knew," says Omi, matter-of-factly, "you really underestimate Ken's intelligence sometimes."   
  
"You knew," I'm having trouble getting past this realization.   
  
"_THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU FUCKING SAY SOMETHING?!_"   
  
"Well I wasn't one hundred percent sure that I was right. It would have been pretty awkward if I was wrong, now wouldn't it?"   
  
"Besides," adds Omi, "how were we to know that telling you wouldn't make things worse? You weren't exactly eager to fess up…we thought maybe you were having trouble accepting your feelings or something."   
  
"And…and…_AYA_ knows?!"   
  
"Hey, not our fault. He figured that out on his own."   
  
"And…_you were betting on me_?!"   
  
"Entirely Aya's idea!" Omi says, putting his hand up defensively, "don't worry, it wasn't a _big_ bet. We just owe him dinner."   
  
"Assholes." All I can do is shake my head in disbelief. "All this time and you fucking _knew_."   
  
"It's not like we were going to leave you hanging indefinitely," says Ken, "we got you to admit it didn't we? Don'tcha feel better now?"   
  
"Not as better as I would have felt if you'd said something to me two weeks ago!"   
  
"And…you've known for _eighteen days_?! Dang, _I_ didn't even know eighteen days ago!"   
  
"That's me," says Ken, smirking, "keen and perceptive."   
  
"But seriously though," he adds, "it's hard to _not_ be perceptive when you like someone."   
  
"So…you do like me?!"   
  
"For ages," Ken remarks, casually, "but I never expected you'd be interested, let alone willing to ruin your 'ladies man' reputation. You really caught me off guard with that whole 'fake mission' ordeal."   
  
Mentioning the fake mission makes me cringe. I'm not exactly proud of that one.   
  
"So anyway…you really had no intention of ever telling me, did you?" Ken asks seriously.   
  
"Well…no," is my honest reply, "not really."   
  
"That's really depressing," says Ken, "why not?"   
  
"I didn't want to ruin our friendship." For some reason, this excuse seems a lot lamer said aloud than it did in my head.   
  
"Thought you might say that," he looks thoughtful for a second, "you really thought I placed so little value on our friendship that I would let it be ruined by something like that?!"   
  
He's grinning again, "you know…I think I'm offended. Did you hear that, Omi? He thinks I'm dense _and_ shallow!"   
  
"Hey! I never said—"   
  
Ken turns back to me, smiling. "Lighten up, Yohji. I'm just kidding. But really, I wish you hadn't felt that way. We would've gotten through it ok….Although, I'm glad we don't have to 'get through it.' I like this outcome a whole lot more."   
  
I'm still having difficulty responding to all this.   
  
I'm trapped somewhere between euphoria, and being _exceptionally_ pissed off.   
  
But…it's really hard to stay mad when Ken's standing right in front of me, looking so goddamn _happy_.   
  
Next thing I know, he's moved closer and has both arms hanging around me.   
  
"What do you say to going out for _real_ tonight?"   
  
The end of my anger evaporates.   
  
"I'd say that would be really great…providing we don't go to either Yamamoto's or Bar Jam Jam."   
  
"Thought you'd say that," Ken laughs again.   
  
"Now what do _you_ say," I add (rather deviously,) "to getting another skanky outfit to wear when we go out?"   
  
"Mmm, I think I can be persuaded," he answers with a smirk.   
  
"Ooh, I can think of a _lot_ of ways to persuade you," I say, pulling him towards the door, "come on, we have eighteen days to make up for."   
  
And you know, Ken was right. I am feeling a _lot_ better.   
  
I think it's gonna be a long time before I have any more bad days.   
  
* * *   
  
_Finito_


End file.
